


Poet

by supernaturalwhovian



Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/M, NEST - Freeform, Poetry, artist, reader - Freeform, vampire
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-10
Updated: 2014-10-10
Packaged: 2018-02-20 14:43:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,115
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2432543
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/supernaturalwhovian/pseuds/supernaturalwhovian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean Winchester/Reader.</p><p>(Female) Reader hunts with Sam and Dean. She doesn't talk much, but she expresses herself through visual art and poetry, which is very private to her. Dean is nosy, and in the end, Reader is glad he is.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Poet

You never wanted the boys to know that you'd been an artist long before you'd been a hunter. 

The only lead you'd worked with until two years ago was pencils, dragging them across sketchbook pages and looping them against the paper of a notebook. You worked the unbearable rhythm of your painful world into beautiful pieces of art with various mediums. You loved any and all music, and could play several instruments well enough. But what you really excelled at was the written word and visual art. 

It was something you didn't admit to. You learned your lesson the hard way freshman year, when your sketches ended up in the wrong hands and all of your deepest feelings and secrets were spread throughout the whole school. You'd always been the shy kid, too, and that didn't help at all. 

You'd always preferred not to talk. Sam and Dean learned that after they saved you from the vampire that cornered you in an alley and took you back to the nest to be a blood slave. You had been so scared, your tongue had knotted itself up, your screams choking in your throat with your bile. And then they'd smashed their way through the door, guns blazing. The world was tilting around you as the life leaked away from you, but rough hands had touched your face—

_“Sammy, she's barely—”_

The next thing you knew you were in the backseat of Baby, your head on a stranger's lap, looking up into the gentle face of a tall man with hair that curled in beneath his jaw. _“You're going to be okay.”_

The tunnel had narrowed, and when it opened again, you were in a sterile white room, the window looking out onto a rushing highway, the gentle, syncopated beeping of your heart monitor steady. 

_“What do you suggest we do, then, Dean? Leave a note on her bed? Let her wonder if she had a psychotic breakdown?” “I don't know, Sammy! You want to tell her we hunt monsters and offer her the opportunity to come along?”_

You'd been brave enough to choke out through your stutter that you wanted to help, and the tall one—Sam—smiled, while Dean looked disgruntled but couldn't talk you out of it. You accompanied them to the bunker, were given your own room, and slowly, slowly throughout the months it became yours. Your band posters on the wall. Your clothes strewn across the room. Your pile of origami cranes on your desk, next to your open tin box with charcoals. It left a dark, chalky streak on the surface of your desk if you weren't careful. 

Sam had been the first to notice your hobbies. He never pressed, he never asked, he just started bringing pencils, pens and markers every now and then when he went on supply runs. 

Dean, however, was much more nosy. He always asked. He always tried to look. You only drew or wrote your poetry when he was gone now, always careful to hide your notebooks and sketchpads underneath the false bottom in your underwear drawer before he got back.

Except you timed it wrong this time.

The bunker door squeaked on its metal hinges as it swung outward, and you sat bolt upright, squeaking as you tried to hide your sketch, scrambling for your poetry notebook. Dean caught sight of them before you could hide them, and you were rendered helpless as he leaped across the bunker, snatching them away from you.

“Finally!” he crowed, flipping through your sketches as you danced around him, trying to snatch them back. He easily held it out of your reach, and you silently cursed your short stature. 

Your first few pictures were innocent enough. Team Free Will and you holding knives, leaning against the hood of Baby. “These are pretty good,” Dean mused out loud, but he fell silent at the next few. You covered your face in your hands, mortified. You had the order memorized, and you knew exactly what Dean was seeing as you heard the flip of the pages, like fluttering butterfly wings. You knew you were done for. You knew there was no coming back from this, and you didn't want to see the pity on his face.

The vampire who took you, splashed in blood. You, fractured down the middle like a broken mirror, your face covered in cracks like spiderwebs, hands bound in bloody rope as the vampire stood behind you, hands on your shoulders, leaning into your neck with his fangs exposed. 

But the next few were worse. 

Dean with a wide smile and the outsides of his eyes crinkled. Dean looking down at his Mark of Cain, his eyes dark and wild, a feral curl to the shudder in his shoulders. Dean with his hands on Baby's steering wheel. Dean with his arms around you. 

The tension in the room was nearly palpable. You felt like crying. Your throat would have been more comfortable if you'd shoved sandpaper down it, wrapped around a red hot poker. 

He said your name. Very quietly. 

You didn't look at him.

You heard him set the books down on the table. You heard him cross over to you. You were vaguely aware that your whole body was shaking with tremors. His calloused hands, the same that had touched your face all that time ago in the nest, gently took your wrists, pulling your palms away from your eyes. You wouldn't look him in the eye until he gently made you, guiding you with his hand on your cheek. You would know those hands anywhere. They were the hands against your skin when you felt the first glimmer of hope that you would survive the vampire.

You looked at him, his green eyes incredibly soft. A different kind of terror overtook you, a slow chill through your bones that had nothing to do with fear of death, as he leaned in to kiss you gently. He was treating you like glass, and that was how you knew he really cared. You were not one of his bartender girls. 

When he pulled away, he acted like nothing happened, plopping into a chair and kicking his muddy boots off, slapping his feet onto the table without a care. He plunged his fork into the pie he'd brought back with him and smiled at you.

“Read me your poetry.” It wasn't a question. But you didn't feel inclined to say no.

You slipped into the chair beside him with shaking legs, like a baby deer, and softly, very softly, you chose to read them out loud to him, your heart quick and light like hummingbird wings.


End file.
